


Disillusion

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Arthur has TB, Dutch is a jerk, Hurt Arthur Morgan, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27140629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: For a brief second they had locked eyes; Dutch watching him as he lay sprawled along the bank, gasping for breath. In the distance, the silhouettes of the army men were approaching, the commands shouted as the thunderous hooves neared.And Dutch had left him there.The man hadn’t even looked back._____________________________________Whumptober 2020Prompt #1: Let's Hang Out Sometime 'Shackled'Prompt#5: Where Do You Think You're Going? 'Failed Escape'Prompt#12: I Think I've Broken Something 'Broken Trust'Prompt#19 'Broken Hearts 'Greif'
Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 8
Kudos: 43
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Disillusion

He never liked the smell of blood.

Animal or otherwise. A shame, considering how often he wore it. Especially as of late. Killed far too many folk far too often to be able to wash it away now. The stains too deep-set, the tang too sharp. Bitter and metallic on his tongue.

That was his own blood.

Nearly bit clean through his own tongue trying to stifle the screams. He might have been powerless to stop the incoming blows, but he sure as hell wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of hearing him scream. Weak as he was, he wasn't going without a fight. Even if it meant he had to endure...then endure he would.

At least he was upright this time. An improvement over the last time he had been in shackles. The metal biting at his wrists instead of his ankles. The mercy small, but benign. Didn’t make it hurt any less; the groan escaping him as flexed his limbs, feet barely scraping the floor.

“You alright?”

He raised his head at the voice, his eyes searching out the other in the darkness. Or at least, one eye. The other was swollen shut, his face a mess of bruises. Bastards liked to hit, and they hit hard.

“Right as rain,” he grumbled, his voice rough. Cleared his throat with a cough, asking the same question in return. About the only conversation they had held. He heard the man laugh, sarcasm lining his weak response.

“I enjoy being tortured; it clears the mind.”

Arthur found himself laughing at that. A small bit of humor shining through all the pain. It lasted only a moment, before fading, amusement replaced by something worse. Something mournful. Eagle Flies didn't deserve any of this. The thought bitter on the back of his tongue.

He was just a kid. A year or two older than Lenny had been, perhaps. He might be a young and angry fool, but at least he had cause to be angry. The world had done him no favors, the army badgering his people at every opportunity, pushing and provoking them, then punishing them when they had audacity to fight back.

It was a losing battle. Had always been; the realization weak but residing in the back of his mind. Surfacing now that he had the time to reflect on things. Arthur realized that the Wapiti had lost this fight long before they had even gotten involved. And Dutch...well, Dutch hadn’t helped matters. Even now Arthur couldn’t wrap his mind around the man’s infatuation with the tribe. The sudden surge in his enthusiasm was confusing at best; disturbing at the worst. The damn fool had gone and caused all this trouble, had insisted it was all in good fun.

He had just about as much fun as he could handle.

His body had already been battered and bruised from the daring jump into the raging river. Weakened limbs struggling against the pull of the current, able to just keep his head above the raging turmoil that threatened to swallow him. Able to catch of glimpse of Dutch who had made it safety, the man sat on the shore, a hand stretched out. Could almost hear him laughing, the joviality in his voice overpowering.

“ _Come on, big boy, I got you.”_

Their hands intertwined for a brief moment. Before slipping free. The rage of the river not quite done with him yet. Determined to drag him down the depths. Dutch’s voice, panicked now, the shout heard moments before he went under.

“ _Arthur!”_

Almost sounded like he cared.

The speculation growing in these past weeks. Ever since Guarma. Maybe even before then. Arthur didn’t want to admit that Dutch had changed. Didn’t want to acknowledge the man who had been like a father to him had become a stranger.

Dutch was all he had, now that Hosea was-

The thought sitting ill with him. A mournful grunt escaping him as he shifted once more, the pull on his arms becoming too much to ignore. Across from him he heard Eagle Flies, the confidence in his voice overpowering.

“Hang in there; my friends will come for us. We must endure till then.”

He laughed dryly in response. “We’re in a god damn military fort. Ain’t no one coming for us.”

“Paytah will come.”

There wasn’t a hint of doubt in the kid’s voice. Certainty bolstering every word. It wasn’t just wishful thinking; he truly believed they would come for him. A doleful ache throbbed deep inside of him. Arthur _might_ have believed the same about Dutch.

Once.

Not anymore.

Because Dutch had held a chance to help. The man scrambling over the ridge moments before the army arrived. Arthur having dragged himself out of the river further downstream. For a brief second they had locked eyes, Dutch watching him as he lay sprawled along the bank, gasping for breath. In the distance, the silhouettes of the army men were approaching, the commands shouted as the thunderous hooves neared.

And Dutch had left him there.

The man hadn’t even looked back.

It wasn’t even a fight. Just a surrender, barely able to make his way to his feet. There was no hope he could outrun them. The weapons leveled and ready to fire if so much as twitched. And they had spared no force, all but dragging him back to the fort in bindings. His chance at salvation disappearing behind heavy wooden doors.

Eagle Flies was already there, had already been beaten by the time they had dragged him inside. Vehemence and hatred driving each blow, no man showing a morsel of restraint. Eager to draw restitution for a brother lost, for all those young men gunned down in the midst of the forest.

That had been mostly their doing. Dutch stirring the Wapiti into action when they should have left well enough alone. Dutch all to eager to jump into battle, the elation in his voice all too easy to hear at the first firing of a gun.

The god damn fool.

What was he hoping to achieve?

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever find out. And Eagle Flies was paying for the brunt of the man’s mistake. As was he. Several of the men here had been especially cruel to the kid, their hate for the Wapiti strong and they needed little reason to beat him senseless. But for Arthur...well, they hated him more. Hated him for the simple fact he had been trying to assist Eagle Flies and his folk. Lorded themselves over him as though they were better in every way. Cruel taunts and speculations falling from their lips as they let their fists fly.

If anything, Arthur knew how to take a beating. He had learned the skill a long time ago, ever since he was a boy. His pa had been none too kind, quick with his fists and more than willing to snatch at whatever object was within reach to add insult to injury. Arthur had learned how to endure. Had learned how to survive those lashings. The life lesson staying with him, even as he grew. Dutch and Hosea both had admonished him more than once for returning to camp decorated in a wide assortment of cuts and bruises, the results of a bar fight or a clash with a rival gang. Never knowing when to stop. Never wanting to stop, no matter how battered he was. Pushing on no matter how badly off he was. All in all, he had learned to hide his injuries well.

Didn’t mean they hurt any less.

He blinked wearily in growing light, their solitude interrupted as two men entered the room. The lantern held high as the door was unlocked, granting them access to the cell they were strung up in. Seemed as though they were here for yet another spell. How wonderful…

Ready as he was he hadn’t been able to stop himself from flinching. Fingers curling about his chin, digging into tender flesh as his head was lifted. There was no strike though, and he felt his heart racing in his chest, muscles quivering in dreaded anticipation. Waiting. The man in front of him was watching him intently, eyes flicking down to a paper held in his hands. Then he gave a grunt, releasing his hold.

“Yeah, that’s him alright. Get a hold of Agent Milton, let him know we have one of Van der Linde’s boys here. I’m sure he’ll be mighty grateful.”

Pinkertons _..._ great. And here he had thought that things couldn’t possibly get worse. What a god damn fool he was. Arthur couldn’t help the icy dread that seized his stomach, and for a moment he was almost sick.

“What about this one?” The second man had motioned over where Eagle Flies, the attention pulled away from Arthur.

“We’ll hang him for treason come morning,” the first said, indifference in his tone. “Come on then, I’m famished. Let’s see if those fools left anything good to eat.”

So...the kid was to hang, and as for him? Sounded like he was going to become real friendly with the Pinkertons.

Well shit. Would have been better if he had just drowned.

The thought heavy in his mind, weighing him down. Memories drifting to all those months ago when the pair had happened across him and Jack back at the river. The allusions to Mac, to what they had done, the implications sending a shiver down his spine. He could only imagine the fate that was in store for him now.

“They will not get that far,” Eagle Flies’ voice broke through his thoughts, as though the kid could read his mind. He was determined still, a small comfort in this dank cell. He wished he still held that sort of belief. Reality had long ago worn down any remaining fantasies. But he wouldn’t say that. Not out loud. What harm did it do to let him hope?

So he let out a grunt, something along the lines of an agreement, even though he didn’t fully believe it himself. He was too tired for anything else. His let his chin come to rest against his chest, his consciousness fleeting, drawn into the enticing depths of sleep. Too weary to fight it anymore.

Exactly how long he slept, he didn’t know.

The scraping of a door rousing him, the squeaking of the hinges interrupting his slumber. The prickling of fear nipping at him. There was a moment where his heart caught in his throat, stealing his breath as the steps drew near. A panicked gasp torn from him as a hand circled his wrist. Fading just then, the voice calm, reassuring.

“Easy, Arthur, it’s just me.”

“Charles?”

His name coming out in breathy confusion. Trying to focus on the man in front of him. He heard the key working into the lock, metal against metal, a clang as the cuffs opened. Arthur nearly face planted, his sudden descent halted by Charles, the man holding him firm, keeping him upright.

“What...how?”

Too many questions. Too many thoughts. His mind still waking, still trying to catch up with everything. Was he dreaming? One eye glancing across the room, watching as Paytah tended to Eagle Flies, supporting his friend as Charles was him.

“I can explain later; right now we need to move. Can you walk?”

“Course I can walk,” he growled, all too eager to prove that fact as he attempted to get his feet under him. He wasn’t as confident as he had sounded, limbs shaking, still leaning heavily against Charles for support. His fingers curled around the gun pressed into his hand, the man watching him.

“Just in case,” he indicated to the weapon. It was perhaps the sweetest feeling in the world. The means of defense. His heart racing now, legs steady and supporting his weight as he rested against the wall. He glanced from the two Wapitis, back to Charles, curiosity racing through him. Wanting to know. Afraid to ask. He forced it out anyways.

“Dutch?”

The grim expression told him what he needed to know. A pang shooting through him. Dutch hadn’t come…

“He doesn’t know we’re here; Paytah and some of the others showed up at camp, told us what happened. And Dutch...well he-we’re on our own.”

Arthur nodded numbly. It hurt. That confession. But he shouldn’t be surprised, if he was being honest. Arthur had known that Dutch wasn’t going to come. That Dutch _wouldn’t_ have come. He hadn’t gone for John. Ever more the stranger, the thought playing in his head. There would be time to mourn that later.

His grip tightened on the gun. His resolve strengthening. He gave the others a nod, letting them know that he was ready.

Paytah went first. Eagle Flies right on his heels. Charles behind Arthur. The two injured men sandwiched between the others, hunched over and low to the ground, skirting on the fringes of the fort. Arthur hadn’t any idea how they managed to make it this far, but was he ever grateful. Even if his blood pounded in his ears, even if his breath rattled in his chest, and even if his vision was nearly white. He was still alive. He was almost free...he pushed it down, ignoring it. He had to to keep on going.

Their luck didn’t last long though. They were spotted as they turned a corner. The fort erupting into chaos. The men jumping into action, weapons leveled, demanding their surrender. Much like before. They would all be killed, of that there was no doubt. But this time, Arthur wasn’t alone. This time, someone had his back.

They answered their demands with a volley of fire. Bullets tearing through the night. Rain drowning out the worst of the cries as they continued to push. Arthur turning as his name was shouted, a stick of dynamite flying through the air. Easily caught, the implication loud and clear.

He lit the fuse. Mustered what strength he had left to chuck it over his head.

The wall went up in a blaze of smoke. The fire burning hot in spite of the rain. The four men breaking free, stumbling through the haze and crawling over debris. Choking, eyes stinging. His ears were ringing, his vision worse, almost blinded. Led on only by Charles who refused to leave his side.

“We have horses ahead, keep pushing!”

Oh was he ever pushing. The last thing he wanted was to hang around and join those men for more _recreation_. And the knowledge he’d wind up with the Pinkertons as an encore was enough to keep him going.

The horses were agitated, their cries splitting the air as they reached them. His chest was on fire, and Arthur didn’t complain when Charles moved to hoist him up. Didn’t complain when the man seated himself behind him. He didn’t complain...because he was hardly aware. Adrenaline spent, drifting in and out of consciousness, a heaviness stealing over his limbs. He found himself drooping, slouching at one point. Until Charles righted him, eased him back against his chest. The sound of his voice reverberating through his body.

“I got you, Arthur. I’m gonna get you home, just hang on.”

That was the last he remembered.

* * *

Beaver Hollow was a festering midden within a cesspit. A place that no sane person would ever willingly venture to, and they had all but gone and made it into a home. Though it never felt like home. Not truly. The remnants of the gang a dark and empty shadow floundering in the aftermath of the mess that had happened in Saint Denis. They were a former shell of what they once were, emotions too vexed to be patched with words alone. The camaraderie long dead and buried. 

Arthur didn’t think anything would save them now.

No longer was the night filled with joyous songs and the clattering of bottles as they relished in each other’s company. Instead they kept to their own, heads bowed down as though afraid it would be taken clean off their shoulders if they so much as looked at someone in the wrong way. And the stew that Pearson tended to was bland, any aromatic wafts drowned out by an even heavier stench that seemed to drift out from the cave itself. Not that he was hungry. Couldn’t bring himself to try and eat even if he was.

He let out a groan, the cloth pressed tenderly to swollen flesh. The ache pounding just beneath his skin. He didn’t remember the ride back here, though Charles said he had come to once or twice. Apparently had even said a few words. They were all lost, memory instead picking up as they arrived back in camp. Because he could well remember the look on Dutch’s face as they rode in.

The man seemed shocked, though if the disbelief was fed by sullen surprise or minute joy he couldn’t rightly say. He was ever the conman, after all. There had been an astute smile on his face, the grin split wide and though he wanted to, Arthur couldn’t bring himself to look the man in the eyes. It was easier to pretend this way.

“ _Arthur! You’re alive!”_

A hesitant clasp on his shoulder as he was helped down from the steed. Arthur saying the words before he could catch himself.

“ _You left.”_

“ _I had no choice, Arthur,”_ Dutch had corrected him. Reassured him. Hadn’t missed a beat. His fingers still lingering on his shoulder, unwanted. If Dutch noticed how he pulled away, the man hadn’t commented. Instead he kept going. " _Trust me, if I did, I would have, but they were coming and I-_ _I was coming for you.”_

“ _Sure, Dutch.”_

He was tired of the games. Tired of the promises. Tired of the plans. He was tired...of everything.

“ _I was, Arthur,” Dutch wouldn’t let him off that easy, blocking the path to his tent. “I had a plan-you believe me, don’t you?”_

He had shrugged, unwilling to agree, unwilling to argue. He just wanted to rest. Wanted to forget. Wanted to sleep so he could wake and pretend it was all nothing more than a horrid dream. Because he didn’t believe him. Not anymore. Dutch had always asked for his faith. And now? Now he wasn’t able to give that. But to argue would do him no favors, so he simply nodded when the man pressed him again.

“ _Course, Dutch.”_

That had been enough to appease the man. The smile still on his face, the man patting his back.

_“Attaboy, Arthur_ ," his voice falling then, "You _uh-you aren’t looking so good son. Why don’t you go get yourself cleaned up, then come see me. I have plans, Arthur. We’re almost home free...just you wait.”_

All that had transpired near a half hour ago. Arthur still holed up on his cot, the rag still dabbing at his wounds. The pain still there, solidifying in his chest. Making it hard to breathe. He coughed, the racket tearing at his throat. The blood spat out on the ground. That had been getting worse. He wiped wearily at his mouth. 

Arthur wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going like this. Didn’t know how much longer he _wanted_ to keep going like this. Knew in the back of his mind that time was running out. That this would not end pretty, for any of them. But it wasn’t in him to simply give up.

So he kept pushing.

Hat set back on his head, pulled down to hide the worst of the bruising as he pushed himself up. The burn still in his chest as he crossed the camp, the longing growing as he saw Dutch seated outside his tent, leafing through one of his books.

The man that used to be his father. Now a stranger, smiling up at him, pleased to see him. Arthur returned the smile as best he could. The awkward tension threatening to drown the both of them. A soft twinge of regret coursing through him. 

And suddenly, Arthur found himself wishing that Hosea was still here.


End file.
